The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  +£2,500 Haddon Publishing

  I have moved this money into the bank’s client account and await the payment of a further £2,500 within two days. Otherwise we will revert to a repossession scenario.

  Yours,

  Paul Peters

  Day Four: –£2,500

  ‘I do like my authors to snarl.’

  Judith, down with the lovely Hope and the photographer, though it had taken Judith’s iron will to get Charlie to pose with his stainless steel.

  ‘That’s it, tiger. Now give me that glare again for the camera.’

  That this was the blade that Fish, er, slipped onto was not lost on Judith. It would not be lost on readers either.

  ‘That’s it, now I want that on the cover.’

  ‘But, Judith, I thought we’d agreed to have a Belle Hotel sketch.’

  ‘Precisely. That can go on the back. This’ll scare the hell out of those other pansies up there, with you on the shelf. Maybe even give Gordon Ramsay a little run for his money.’

  Judith looked at some new recipes, artfully ignoring the fact that it was Lulu who printed them off, and talked her through them. Charlie had obviously found his ghost in the form of this capable woman.

  ‘By whatever means necessary,’ she’d whispered to Hope as she bore Judith’s handbag to the powder room.

  Charlie served them coq au vin and regaled the table with the tale of Franco and the French wine merchant.

  ‘That’s going in. Make a note, Hope, I want to see coq and that anecdote in the first half.’

  Judith and her entourage took tuk-tuks up to the station and were back in London in time for cocktails.

  Lulu kissed Charlie on the cheek.

  ‘I tell you what, that coq looked fantastic, why don’t you come over to the houseboat later. We can cook it together.’

  Great idea. What time could he get away? Nine at the latest. Full again tonight, word was getting around.

  Charlie was running late. He was also running.

  ‘Hi, Eddie, how’s it going? What? Chicken.’

  He cut across the late evening traffic and jogged the two miles to Shoreham, past the elegantly wasted remains of the West Pier. Seagulls swooped, the chicken bits bounced about and all was well with the world. He wrist still hurt a bit, but you can’t have everything.

  Her houseboat felt good. Dimmed halogen, lapping water.

  ‘So, Charlie 1, Graeme 0.’

  ‘Stop it, Charlie. Graeme was a good guy. It was just—’

  ‘Couldn’t cook?’

  Charlie recited the coq au vin ingredients to Lulu as he tipped out his pockets. She typed into her laptop. Out came the Le Creuset from the bottom of the sack.

  ‘Used to have ten of these. Now we’re down to this. I’ll have to buy some new stock if coq is going back on the menu. Not cheap, mind you, they’re are a hundred quid a throw.’

  Lulu looked at the cast-iron orange pot. Burnt flecks of Judith Langdon’s lunch darkened the lid.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you what we’ve got. Copied verbatim from Franco. Don’t mess with a classic, he always said. But then, that’s why he never got a Michelin star.’

  Lulu looked at this savage in her kitchen. She loved him. She always had done. Like Cathy loved Heathcliff. Their love had that touch of the gothic that Lulu had so loved in her A level English Lit. Writing the Belle Hotel Cookbook was a real way for Lulu to flex muscles she’d not used since school. She could write well, they’d always said that. Writing Charlie’s story deepened her love. It was her story, too, after all. She wanted his child, the decision hadn’t been that hard, once she’d got over the shock of his Jekyll and Hyde moment. Lulu was knocking thirty-five, this could be her last chance. And she wanted him again, physically. He’d changed, softened since the breakdown, and that made him attractive to her. Old Charlie attractive. Miles Davis on in the background, little else on in the foreground attractive. But first he’d have to feed her.

  ‘A large chicken, jointed into six, see, I did it earlier. An onion. A carrot. Fist full of pancetta, bacon just won’t cut it. Knob of butter. Two onions. Two sticks of celery. Four cloves of garlic. Some flour, you got any? Good. Bottle of red wine. French. We don’t want to upset that merchant again. I guessed you’d have some. Good again. Bunch of thyme. T-H-Y-M-E. Some bay leaves. Half a pound of button mushrooms. Half a pound of shallots.’

  Lulu nodded, she’d got all that.

  ‘OK, now I’ll do the Delia.’

  He placed the heavy pot on the hob, lit the gas with his red plastic lighter and chucked in the chicken.

  ‘Here goes. Carrot, onion and garlic.’

  Lulu fetched two bottles of wine. One for them, one for the pot.

  ‘Pancetta in now, that’s it, let it stick. We want that goo for the flavour. Now the mushrooms and shallots. And the celery, oh and cognac. You got? VSOP, super.’

  Charlie stood over the pan, stirring it continuously with his wooden spoon. Time passed, nothing was said. Lulu finished her take on the Franco anecdote, took a sip of her claret and waited.

  ‘Good, now we can add the wine, put the lid on, lower the heat and give it forty minutes. What we going to do?’

  He looked at her, bedroom eyes over a pot of food.

  ‘You are a naughty boy, Charlie Sheridan.’

  He picked her up and plonked her on the butcher’s block, Brampton style. Lu was still wearing her pencil skirt from work. As they kissed she found that it rode up quite easily. Her head span with the sensation of sex and simmering chicken. He’d somehow found his way back inside her. And it felt fantastic.

  Charlie was over and out with plenty of time to make and cook the noodles and open another bottle of claret. They sat at her glass-topped table to eat. How could he make something so simple taste so good? Same ingredients. Different hands. Totally new sensation.

  He stayed the night and didn’t think he was making a habit of this, as Lu reminded him in plain English. Her body language told him something different. They kissed, hugged, tasted the flavours of Charlie’s food on one another, and made love once more.

  Day Five: –£2,500

  As soon as the sun was over Whitehawk Hill, Charlie bounced back along the front, dirty Le Creuset in his sack. Lulu flopped back in bed and considered her options. This wasn’t just love, it was business. She’d be stupid to confuse the two. Anyway, with Roger Hardman for a father she was never short of a second opinion on the subject. If she was serious about him and, let’s face it, she’d loved him since she was eleven, and she was going to have his child, then they would have to do it properly. Day Five and Charlie still had to find the other half of the money. He needed to do this himself to prove his seriousness to her. Was she really ready to commit? She needed a sign, something more than Charlie staggering on for another five days. Lulu turned Franco’s book over absent-mindedly in her hands. Charlie had let her borrow it to search for new recipe ideas for The Belle Hotel Cookbook. She started again at the beginning and soon came to the crayon drawing she and Charlie had done as kids of the two of them at Belle Hotel. She smiled and turned the crinkling paper over. It was then she saw what was written on the back, in block capitals by Franco’s hand.

  LULU, DO NOT LET CHARLIE THROW THIS AWAY

  She thought about Franco’s command from beyond the grave. Bit forceful for a kid’s picture. Then the penny dropped. The ‘THIS’ was not about the picture. It was about the thing in the picture. Lulu, do not let Charlie throw Belle Hotel away. Franco knew Belle Hotel needed the two of them. More than that it needed someone with Franco’s rod of iron to run the place and keep Charlie on track. Keep Charlie on track so that he could do what he did best. Cook food that made mouths water. And if she was going to do this, Lulu needed her name above the door. She didn’t need to buy Charlie, she needed to own him. And on that satisfying revelation, Lulu shut Franco’s book and fell back asleep.

  Lulu’s alarm beeped eight. Charlie was running up Ship Street and Lulu decided to take the da
y off work for the first time in her life. She’d probably be chucking the job at Hotel Epicure soon and then the work would really start. Lulu called Graeme to let him know and then asked if he’d do himself and Charlie a favour.

  Charlie was late for breakfast, but he didn’t care. Janet tutted as he entered, flung her apron at him and left him with a trough of sizzling sausages. He couldn’t see her face, he knew she was smiling.

  *

  Evening Standard

  BRIGHTON ROCKS AGAIN!

  By Fay Mentor

  Now that summer’s finally here it seemed a good idea to head for the seaside – a good excuse to show off our British coastline to Mimi Marriot, my old friend and former food critic of the New York Times.

  We took a bracing stroll along the prom before slipping up Ship Street, past the ghastly Octopus restaurant at Hotel Epicure (scene, as readers will know, of the most revolting risotto I have ever tasted) and in through the famous stained-glass art deco door marked Belle Hotel.

  Invigorated by deep breaths of briny air, laced with the fumes of the passing cars of holiday-makers and day-trippers, we dived straight into a perfectly chilled bottle of Krug and a platter of oysters so fresh you’d have to dive down yourself for better as we perused the menu. Mimi was keen to try our heritage dish, and one of Belle Hotel’s specialities, bubble and squeak. I was intrigued to see how the place had fared since my last visit, when Franco Sheridan, with his famous clientele of actors, was still owner, maître d’ and celebrity character of the Old School, who had perfected the art not only of great food but of unrivalled customer service.

  His grandson Charlie Sheridan has taken over the family business and was even awarded a Michelin star in 1997 – this must be the most discreet Michelin-starred restaurant in the country! Though as celebrity chefs go Charlie seems to be a bit of a recluse, I can assure you, Charlie Sheridan’s food is breathtakingly good. He understands, psychs out and goads ingredients in a manner that has never been bettered outside the M25. Not one for trios of cubes or cylinders, eschewing the dribbles-of-sauce school of cooking, he has carried on the tradition of Belle Hotel with good, traditional British dishes with a twist – the combination that won him his star. A fallen star, alas, but once a star nevertheless. Our simple slices of terrine de foie gras outlined with Madeira jelly was a dream, and typical of what he does superbly. Mimi’s verdict on her omelette fines herbes (Charlie perfected his omelette technique in Paris) was ‘light, luscious and redolent with the scent of new-mown herbs’. Charlie has clearly done little to upset the local devotees. Classic dishes introduced by Franco have survived and even been bettered. My scallops with pea purée were light as the briny air. For her main course, Mimi bravely tackled a British classic, commenting that her fish and chips with a Harvey’s Best batter would for her become the taste of the English seaside: classic, memorable and fresh as the cloudless sky. My coq au vin came in its own oven pot and was, from the first lift of the lid onwards, the best interpretation of this Gallic classic, in fragrance, presentation and taste, I’ve tasted this side of La Manche.

  One thing I love about the Belle Hotel, and the reason I’ve always wanted to come back, is its eclectic mix of seediness and sophistication, but the food is sophistication itself. Crêpes Suzette flamed by as we talked, a fabulously tempting spectacle, but eventually we went our own ways. My trifle was unctuous perfection; Mimi said the tarte tatin turned her taste buds upside down.

  The menu itself, laid out Escoffier-style, is Franco’s invention, a throw-back to his days as head steward on the Brighton Belle train, where in his youth he plied the silver service platter back and forth to the capital eight times a day. It taught him speed of delivery, and Charlie continues the tradition of presenting dishes speedily and with panache. If you haven’t got all afternoon to enjoy the fading glory of the Belle Hotel you can be in and out within the hour: a boon for the hotel’s theatre clientele, who regularly enjoy the full six-course menu, including savoury. Our Welsh rarebit came with a glass of superbly selected Château d’Yquem, a favourite of the establishment that rose from the Belle Hotel cellar chilled to perfection.

  We left the place in love with Brighton and all things Belle Hotel. Our train seemed somewhat sterile after the Pullman époque grandeur of Brighton’s much loved foodie treasure. I came back to London with only one pang of regret: throughout the nineties it was the presence of Franco, always immaculate, ever charming, that set the seal on the dining experience. But front of house now sparkles with two Brighton Belles, and with Claire and Emma in the chorus and Charlie in the kitchen, Belle Hotel has successfully walked the tightrope of keeping up traditions while moving with the times. She’s had her ups and downs; these have been well documented in less savoury publications than our own. The food, to my mind has remained top notch. The chef has got his fingers burned, but always put up great food. He now needs to keep a lid on his temper. Front of house… Belle Hotel needs a new maître d’. The grapevine tells me Charlie’s in the running to regain his star. Watch this space.

  Charlie was reading the review and whooping and slapping Fish on the back with the rolled-up Standard when Graeme came knocking.

  Charlie flung open the door. The review had rendered him fearless.

  ‘Executive chef, to what do we owe this honour?’

  ‘Cut it out, Sheridan. I come in peace.’

  Graeme made the Mr Spock sign and Charlie gave it back.

  ‘Come in, mate. Let’s smoke the peace pipe, eh?’

  ‘Sorry about your nose. Is it broken?’

  ‘Nah, just a bit bent. Good thing you’re a better cook than you are a black belt.’

  ‘Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment. In fact, that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.’

  ‘You’d better come in. We’ll sit in the restaurant. Talk this through over a coffee. Fish, mate, go get Janet to fix us a coffee.’

  Ten minutes later, once they’d shared a strong coffee from Franco’s pitted silver pot, Graeme made Charlie an offer.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of money saved up, you need that. You’ve got something I need. Maybe we can help one another, rather than always competing. Charlie, I’ll pay you two thousand five hundred quid today if you agree to teach me to cook the way that Franco taught you.’

  Charlie nodded and lit up a fag.

  ‘We don’t tell anyone, Charlie. Not a soul. Agreed?’

  Agreed. And sealed with a handshake. Lessons to begin on receipt of the cash in Belle Hotel’s Hookes account. Same amount every month for six months, if the first month worked out.

  Charlie smiled and waved Graeme back down Ship Street and muttered ‘Fuck me,’ under his breath.

  2008–10

  The Belle Hotel Cookbook

  Brighton Museum’s Curator and Keeper of Fine Art was absolutely delighted to receive Lulu’s telephone call. Delighted, but not in the least surprised. Roger Hardman had told him to ring fence 500K and hold his balcony space for an undiscovered Hockney.

  The deal was not yet done. Janet was yet to acquiesce. Janet was yet to agree to anything. But they knew it was just a matter of time.

  ‘Come on, Charley Farley, let’s set up the laptop on table two. Bring Franco’s book, will you? We’re going to need some inspiration.’

  Charlie’s very much alive ghost-writer was getting to the end of her tether. Last words, puddings, and her lover was proving worse than useless. Never really his thing, the sweet stuff, he usually left it to Fish to deal with food from the main course forwards.

  Charlie reappeared with the book and a pot of camomile to soothe Lulu’s stomach. She was feeling proper queasy at the moment and needed something to fortify her for the confections to come.

  ‘So, let me see, Charlie. At the end, you say… what’s this, dates on the back?’

  Lulu flicked over a yellowing lemon meringue tart page and pointed at Franco’s spidery hand.

  ‘June 1989. Yes, our home ec. GCSE.’

  ‘You le
nt me an egg.’

  ‘You flicked butter at me behind the examiner’s back.’

  She turned the frail pages and read out dishes and dates.

  ‘Pondichery poulet rouge. Twelfth of August 1998. So you mean to say he was still feeding you these, then?’

  ‘I guess so. You’re the first to notice. Good dish, that chicken curry, it’s the fusion of French and spices that make it work. That wasn’t the first version. He developed it over decades. Gave me a lecture once about vinegar and that being the froggy bit. Think he got the original recipe from… Fizal Moondi, I think, who had some relative who was brought up there.’

  ‘Jesus, he never stopped training you, did he. Talk about dedication.’

  ‘Well, it paid off. For a bit. Come on, Lu, I’ve got lots to do.’

  ‘Just pick your top few, hit me with the anecdotes and you can get back to your kitchen.’

  Tarte Tatin

  8 Cox’s orange pippin apples

  1 fresh vanilla pod

  7 oz caster sugar

  5 oz unsalted butter

  10 oz puff pastry

  1 egg & tbsp double cream for wash

  5 fl oz crème fraîche

  Butterscotch sauce

  5 oz butter

  5 oz caster sugar

  5 oz golden syrup

  3 oz whipping cream

  ‘Franco said tarte tatin was first created by accident in Lamotte-Beuvron, France in 1889. B-E-U-V. He told this tale a thousand times. The hotel was run by two sisters, Stephanie and Caroline Tatin. Stephanie Tatin, who did most of the cooking, was overworked that day, nothing new there. She started to make traditional apple pie but left the apples cooking in butter and sugar too long. Smelling the burning, she tried to rescue the dish by putting the pastry base on top of the pan of apples, quickly finishing the cooking by putting the whole pan in the oven. She turned out the tart upside down, and was surprised how much the hotel guests appreciated the dessert. Restaurateur Louis Vaudable tasted the tart on a trip to the Sologne region and made the dessert a permanent fixture on the menu at his restaurant, Maxim’s de Paris. Et voilà. Franco would lift the cloche and tell them they served tatin on the trains because it tasted good even if you’d dropped it.’